


Stomping Grounds

by QueenieWithABeenie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Borrowed OCs, Crack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Beta We Die Like Clones, OT3, Past Relationship(s), Poly Relationships, Threesome - F/M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Why do I do this, college shenanigans, i guess you can call it that, mlm, most of this comes from tumblr, the fact that i had to make a tag for thrass and formbi-, those two should be their own warning, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenieWithABeenie/pseuds/QueenieWithABeenie
Summary: Deleted scenes from "Inbound Flight"Requests are open in the comments, too
Relationships: Ar'alani/Karyn Faro, Ar'alani/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Formbi | Chaf'orm'bintrano/Brierly Ronan, Thrass | Mitth'ras'safis/Formbi |Chaf'orm'bintrano, Thrass | Mitth'ras'safis/Original Character(s), Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto
Comments: 60
Kudos: 26





	1. Touch (Thrass/Thilvon)

Thilvon’s touch sends a shiver down his spine as she persists in tracing her knuckles along his arms and sides, a bewitchingly soft smile painted across her cheeks. Thrass finally, after who knows how long of staring at her, mesmerized, pluckes a delicate hand from his arm and holds it to his lips. Her fingers are rough and calloused, a mark of years spent working with metals and woods in her spare time, but Thrass could never in a thousand lifetimes find her any less delicate. Thilvon steps closer, slipping her hand way and replacing it with her own lips on his, and he can feel her smile widening. Somewhere in the room the music box stops playing, its coils exhausted of motion, but still Thrass shifts her arms and takes the first step in dance, humming a familiar melody in the soft silence between them. Holding her at arm’s length for even a moment as part of their waltz is painful -Thilvon is too far away for him to hear her heart. But he can see every perfect, beautiful curve and line, every flex of her muscles as she all but floats back into his arms.

It’s an unthinkably intimate scene as Thrass lays feather-light kisses along the length of her arm, especially within the confines of her office on Csilla where any number of syndics or heads of houses or aides could come a’knocking at any moment and tear the moment away from them. Thrass keeps it all tucked away in the darkness of his mind, focused wholly on the deity spinning under his arm and back into his hold. Thilvon smiles with a new glint of mischief and Thrass laughs softly, allowing her to take the lead in the next round. He can’t recall when they first starting acting in such a unison, only that it comes as easily as breathing.

Lowering him into a dip, Thilvon presses a soft kiss to his nose. They do not need words. It’s been decades since they evolved past such forms of expression. Thrass can read the shifts in her eyes and the flickers of the smallest muscles in her face like a book, and Thilvon has mastered the language of his posture and intakes of breath. Now, lacing their fingers together and pulling her flush to him again, Thrass marvels at the shadows cast across her by the chandelier overhead, at how the little speckles of light hit her eyelashes like sun on frost-covered flowers.Thrass cannot, even with such a vast vocabulary to choose from, describe her in any way that will ever do her justice. He’s tried to deem himself unworthy, tell Thilvon that she could have done so much better than him, only to be met with her fierce and unwavering assurances that he was, is, and always will be hers.

And if those conversations devolved into Thilvon taking the lead in demonstrating just how much he’s worth? Then so be it. The view is lovely, though hearing Thrass admit such a thing _out loud_ is near impossible.


	2. In Sickness and in Health (Thrawn/Ziara)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ziara gets sick. Thrawn is -for once- not the stubborn one.

Very few souls saw Ziara after hours and ultimately lived to tell the tale. She is a private woman, maintaining a few core friendships to keep her career on track and spending a great deal of her personal time in meditation, personal training, or buried up to pointed ears in some book. So for illness to go virtually unnoticed is alarmingly commonplace in her life. And most of the time, Ziara just passes it off as seasonal allergies -even though there are few, if any, allergens aboard a starship.

Thrown, however, is unfortunately clever and sees right through her act in _seconds_. She should’ve seen it coming -his eyes only narrow like _that_ when he’s scheming.

“It’s _nothing,”_ Ziara insists, forcing back another sneeze and scooting her chair closer to her desk. In the corner of her vision, just past the pages of her book, she sees Thrawn shifting his weight dangerously. It’s the same subtle stance he takes up when he’s about to tell someone things about virself. “Just a bit dusty in here.”

“The last time you saw a _speck_ of dust,” he deadpans, “you took a charric to it.”

Ziara’s fingers curl around a page, mid-turn, sniffling another sneeze. “I most certainly did _not_.”

The boy’s posture shifts again, now matching his deadpan a bit more. His arms are crossed, weight balanced on cocked hips. The _sass_ he radiates with is absurd. “And when was the last time you consulted a physician regarding your _allergies_?”

She huffs, and despite the relative safety of her desk, her muscles coil in preparation for combat. “I said I’m _fine_ , Thra-ahCHOO!!”

Ziara all but doubles over, nose reflexively tucked in the crook of her elbow.

“Your core temperature has risen, Ziara,” Thrawn says dryly. “You are ill, Ziara. A visit to the medicenter would be wise.”

“I’ll get around to it.” She recovers and scoots just a bit closer to her desk so she can lean into it. “All I require is rest, which I cannot do so long as you pester me.”

When Thrawn remains silent, the hairs on the back of Ziara’s neck stand on end. A quite Thrawn is a plotting Thrawn.

Without warning, the chair is yanked away from the desk, and Ziara with it. An undignified yelp tears from her throat, giving way to a small coughing fit. When she look up again, it’s directly at Thrawn’s face, inches away from her own.

“I am taking you to the medicenter, Ziara.” He says firmly, but not unkindly. Thrawn rests a gentle hand against her neck, a deep frown creasing his brow. “Your fever continues to rise, and will do so if untreated.” She curls into the coolness of his palm, letting out a small, miserable whimper, suddenly feeling even sicker than she ever has.

She lets the following string of events happen with little protest, even openly tucking herself closer to Thrawn’s chest when he insists on carrying her -something Ziara is quietly thankful for, she doesn’t particularly trust her own balance in the moment and his tunic offers a welcome respite from the light.

Once she’s been safely deposited in a medicenter bed, Ziara holds his hand a moment too long before finally letting go. Thrawn, for whatever it’s worth, doesn’t comment. Rather, he simply leans over the bed and presses a delicate kiss to her hot forehead.

“Rest well, Captain.”


	3. Breakfast (Thrass/Thilvon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently these two are the OTP of the "inbound Flight" series..

Thrass wakes up curled against Thilvon’s side and tucked neatly under her arm -easily the best place to fall asleep and wake up, he thinks. Her breath is still slow and steady when he lifts himself onto his elbow to press a kiss to her cheek. Slowly, Thilvon’s eyes flick open, growing in brightness when she spots him hovering. She smiles warmly, pulling him to her chest.

“How long have you been awake, ch’eo?” Thilvon mumbles against his ear, cardin her fingers through his messy hair. Thrass always looks so impish when he first wakes up, all disheveled and chaotic and so unlike the polished politician draped in every silk under the seven moons.

A deep, content purr rumbles in his chest just above his collarbone and Thrass nuzzles into her touch. “Not long. A few minutes at most.”

She laughs softly and kisses his nose. “I’m just thankful you finally fell asleep.”

“Yesterday was impressively long,” Thrass grumbles, “Quite a bit to keep me up thinking.”

“I know.” Thilvon shifts under him until she’s propped up against the headboard, Thrass still happily curled up in her lap. “When are you required to be back in Parliament?”

Thrass peaks up at her, eyes glowing dimly. He’d rather be sleeping, she can tell, but too much plagues his mind. “Day after tomorrow. We called a two-day recess.” He sighs then, listing himself just enough to press a long kiss to the valley between her breasts, right over her heart. Thilvon’s fingers curl in his hair, nails brushing lightly against his scalp. “Plenty of time to spoil you, my love, if you permit me.”

Thilvon purrs in response, drawing him up for a proper kiss before resting her forehead against his. “Breakfast first, ch’eo.”

“Cha’i and sweet rolls?” If he were feline in anatomy, Thrass’s ears might’ve perked up, drawing an amused chuckle from the matriarch.

“Only if you throw in a few ch'avsi'ahn’bar,” she amends. Thilvon wriggles a leg out from under the man and kicks at the heavy blankets until they’re in a heap at the foot of the bed. “C’mon now, up we go.”

The selling point of the temporary apartment for Thrass had been the kitchen. Big enough for them, to move about in without bumping into each other -unintentionally- but not overwhelmingly large, either. Lots of counter space and an attached pantry made entertaining guests easier, too. Perfect for cooking together whenever they possibly could.

Thilvon leaves him in charge of tea, busying herself with putting together the rest of breakfast. The division of tasks allows Thrass the chance to admire the way the oversized nightshirt clings to her in all the right places. She truly is a work of art. He shakes his head; so many years and he’s still as lovesick as he’d been the day they met.

_She reaches up into the cupboard in search of something, probably the little plates, but as always is just that much too short to reach._

Thrass crosses the short distance to her, reaching right over her head for the plates just as she has the bright idea to push against him and-

 _Oh no_.

“I thought you said breakfast first?” Thrass all but whines.

Thilvon hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t move away. Instead, she just rolls her hips ever so slightly. “I said nothing about winding you up before that,” she says innocently. Thrass can almost see her bat her eyelashes with that smug little grin of hers and briefly considers flipping her around to kiss it right off her face. He does, in part, follow through on the thought and wraps his arms around her middle, arching himself across her spine until they’re pressed flush.

He speaks against her cheek, softly, slowly, in the tone she likes, just loud enough to send a shiver down her back.

“Tease.”

Thilvon’s chest rumbles with a deep noise that is not quite a purr and not quite a laugh, but rather something that sends a rush of heat through him. The sound becomes a low growl and before he can blink, Thrass finds himself pinned against the countertop. Thilvon’s eyes twinkle with mischief as she rises to her tiptoes to lick along the column of his throat.“Try me.”

Thrass hums against her lips, more than content to stay exactly where they are for as long as she wants.

When she does pull away, Thrass very nearly whines at the loss of warmth. But he can see her core temperature rising, see the way her chest rises and falls desperately, and smiles with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

“Bed, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna write smut for this but I'm a weenie so I guess that's not happening (yet)


	4. Chiss-Human Relations Board

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Email exchange between members of the CHRB in regards to a new human captured during the Battle of Rhigar.

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 0956hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Admiral Sovereign Ar’alani of the CEDF, Consular Chaf’an’obrie of the CHRB, Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Imperial Human Prisoner 10601010**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

May the Dawn find you all well.

It has been brought to the attention of Warden Clesh'ivish'hresie that HP-10601010 became what Consular Chaf’an’obrie described as “emotionally compromised” during the first round of interrogations. However, none of the vid evidence and personnel reports from the incident indicate any malpractice or violence on behalf of the personnel involved. This is deeply concerning to both the CSF and CHRB. As such, an investigation into the incident (as well as the general psyche of Humans during situations of deep stress) are to be launched within one Csillan standard week. Until such time, all interrogations are to continue as normal, with special attention to detail during sessions with HP-10601010.

May Warrior’s Fortune favour your efforts,

|Director Kivu’pau’areta, CHRB

|Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli, CHRB

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1005hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Admiral Sovereign Ar’alani: CEDF, Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie, Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli: CHRB**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Re: Imperial Human Prisoner 10601010**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

May the Dawn find you all well.

This may or may not be a particular reaction commonly referred to as a “mental breakdown” in Human terms. When we’re put under stress, especially young ones, our brains sort of…stop functioning properly? I can’t fully explain it (I was a military man, not a psychologist, mind you), though I do recall it being a very common occurrence among new cadets and even some officers I worked with.

I do recall the question that caused such a reaction in our dear little friend. Agent Viqhi'ibawi'dirsam was initiating the first stage of questioning, which involves asking the prisoner their name. I had not even begun to properly translate the question when the dear little thing burst into tears. As the reports show, we deemed her a lost cause after only a few minutes of inconsolable crying. I would request that Agent Viqhi'ibawi'dirsam is not put under observation or punished for the incident. I will vouch for him, should this ever come into formal inquiry.

May Warrior’s Fortune favour your efforts

| Consular Chaf’an’obrie, CHRB

-> _Sent from mobile <-_

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1009hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Admiral Sovereign Ar’alani: CEDF, Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli: CHRB, Consular Chaf’an’obrie, Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant: CEDF**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Re: Re: Imperial Human Prisoner 10601010**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

May the Dawn find you all well.

Humans are indeed proving to be peculiar species. Indeed, Director, it would be prudent to begin looking into the changes their brains undergo during questioning. From my understanding, the incident with HP-10601010 is -while the most extreme by far- no longer an isolated incident. In regard to your request, Consular Fanobri, that Agent Viqhi'ibawi'dirsam be vindicated of any consequences, I agree. There is clearly proof to support this.

I am in agreement with Director Kivu’pau’areta in the case that HP-10601010’s questioning be monitored extremely closely. May I also add another pin to the cushion -perhaps Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant and Consular Chaf’an’obrie alone should take on the responsibility of questioning the humans who are proving to be more susceptible to these “mental breakdowns”? Given that these gentlemen are currently the only Humans within the Ascendancy (on our side, naturally), it may be advantageous to allow them to deal with these cases (under observation).

Sovereign, may I make a personal statement?

May Warrior’s Fortune favour your efforts

| Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1010hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli: CHRB, Consular Chaf’an’obrie, Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant: CEDF, Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Personal Statement**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

you may

\- ar’alani

-> _Sent from mobile_ <-

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1010hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Admiral Sovereign Ar’alani: CEDF, Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli: CHRB, Consular Chaf’an’obrie, Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant: CEDF**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Re: Personal Statement**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

Consular, you were not a “military man”. Our records indicate that you serves as secretary to another human, who had very little -if any- military standing. Need I remind you of two things? 1) These records were written by yourself. 2) The Chiss Ascendancy does not tolerate attempts to overstate one’s personal standing by boasting falsehoods.

May Warrior’s Fortune favour your efforts

| Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1012hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli: CHRB, Consular Chaf’an’obrie, Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant: CEDF, Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Re: Re: Personal Statement**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

Back to the topic at hand, boys. I’m sure the Director would prefer us to actually discuss the issue of HP-10601010, not the military qualifications of Consular Chaf’an’obrie. Let’s not embarrass the poor Human too much -there’s only so much scorn the Chaf ego can handle at once.

-Ar’alani

-> _Sent from Mobile <-_

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1015hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Consular Chaf’an’obrie, Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant: CEDF, Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie, Admiral Sovereign Ar’alani: CEDF**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Re: Re: Personal Statement**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

Syndic Chaf’ees’aklaio has a rather skittish pusheen tom that makes quite the fuss when she has to take it to the vet… has anyone tried wrapping the human in a blanket to calm it down? It works like a charm on Mittens.

May Warrior’s Fortune favour your efforts,

|Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli, CHRB

21 Kelona, 6781CSY. 1024hrs Csillan Standard

**> TO: All Chiss Security Force personnel currently stationed at Rei’cs’enb’ahcs Penitentiary **

**> CC: Admiral Sovereign Ar’alani: CEDF, Director Kivu’pau’areta: CHRB, Assistant Director Chaf’ama’iruli: CHRB, Consular Chaf’an’obrie, Grand Admiral Mitth’eli’vant: CEDF**

**> SUBJECt MATTER: Mittens Method**

**MESSAGE BODY TEXT:**

I’m willing to try it, if anyone else is.

May Warrior’s Fortune favour your efforts

| Warden Clesh’ivish’hresie

-> _Sent from mobile_ <-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one will be a reoccurring piece because this OC is so much fun to play with.


	5. Saturn (Thrass/Formbi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director's Cut of "Memento Mori" from Rising Order
> 
> Title take from "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last 
> 
> https://youtu.be/UAhcfpe0yGg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IF YOU HAVEN'T FINISHED "RISING ORDER" TURN BACK RIGHT NOW

The hammer fells like an ill-fated vessel to a planet’s surface.

 _A man cannot be exiled twice, for upon return from exile the punishment is to be death. Should he escape the blade immediately, he cannot be allowed to return to the outer world once more with vengeance in mind_. _In any case, there is no survival in exile. One is lost to the elements, to pirates or enemies, to time. One does not return and expect to live, to go on in life unpunished._

Thrass sits in his office well into the night, curled up in the window seat amid the pillows Thilvon sits with when she occupies the space and eyes unfocused through tears. He stopped outright crying nearly an hour ago, but cannot find the strength to breathe, let alone move from the space. He feels nothing and everything all at once, like a seashell trying to hold water as it slips through cracks.

The hatch chimes once, softly, before it opens. Thrass shifts his head just enough to see a flit of yellow and black pass across his peripheral and come into his personal space.

“Chaf’orm’bintrano.” The name alone takes a wearying about of effort to speak. The cushion dips near his shoes as the other man sits.

“Mitth’ras’safis.”

His voice, for his wedding’s eve, is dark and sober, and Thrass looks up at him. Perhaps once, in a past life, they could have been friends.

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.” He insists on speaking in hushed tones, and Thrass wonders if he is just as tired as he looks to be. “There’s been another round of raids.”

Thrass meets his stare, eyes heavy and threatening to close for the sake of sleep. “Who?”

“Irizi and Raynel,” Formbi says with a long sigh. “We think they’re after the-“

“-Sky-walkers,” Thrass finishes darkly. “Did they get away?”

Formbi leans a little more against the wall, now facing the other man. “The Mandalorian and his son escaped with Commandant Irizi’kary’nfa. The Togruta was not so lucky.”

Thrass stays silent for a moment, mouthing a prayer of thanks to the Goddesses that at least the infant survived. He’ll read the other reports later, after-

_It is the place of he or she highest in command of the Military to carry out any and all capital punishment where a member -current or former- of said military is the sentenced._

He’ll just read whatever report Ar’alani brings back with her in the coming days.

“Why aren’t you on your way back to Sarvchi yet?” Thrass asks, changing the subject entirely. “You’re supposed to be getting married, aren’t you?”

Formbi shrugs, lacing his fingers together where they’re rested on his knees. There’s a frown on his face that _almost_ threatened to twitch into a smile at mention of the aforementioned wedding. But the somber expression remains glued in place, and Thrass grasps at sticks trying to recall if he’s ever see this kind of emotion on display.

“You need people right now, even if you don’t think you do,” he says simply. “And I’m sure I’m the last person you want to be around, but I can’t let you be alone.”

Thrass looks out the window again. The cavern’s lighting system has been turned off for the night cycle, leaving only building lights and street laps to illuminate the abyss of Csaplar. What he wouldn’t give to see the aurora…

There’s a warm weight on his shin and he turns back to Formbi. The shock of seeing tears pool in the man’s eyes almost overpowers everything else. “I’m so sorry, Thrass.”

Hearing the words… Thrass presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut against a new wave of tears that threaten to fall.

Everything that happens next is a blur in Thrass’s memory. One moment he’s pressed against the wall of his own volition and the next he’s in _someone’s_ arms, being cradled gently and sobbing into a dreadfully soft yellow collar.

In the back of his memory, he knows Formbi is a cuddler. He won’t admit it to _anyone_ , not even himself, but he is and Thrass knows it. He’s been on the receiving end of it.

And _gods_ , Thrass hates him so much. Formbi is a blasphemy, a coward. He hates him for voting in favour of his little brother’s exile, he hates him for the nights Thilvon still doesn’t know about, he _hates him for not backing out of the_ Outbound Flight _initiative sooner_ because _dammit how much pain could we all have been spared_?!

Thrass chokes out another sob and claws at the shoulders beneath his fingers. He knows that there is a pair of arms pulling him closer and holding him close and he _cries for Thilvon to be there to hold him_.

He knows who it is, knows why there’s yellow under his palms, knows whose hand is carding through his hair.

 _“Thrass_ …”

The patriarch wants nothing more than to crawl into hole and fade into oblivion. He’s supposed to be better than this, better than sobbing miserably onto the shoulder of a blood rival.

Mitth’ras’safis is supposed to pull himself up by his bootlaces and go about his day fighting the utter injustices of the charges against _Mitth_ ’raw’nuru.

He’s head of their family, for kark sake.

“ _Look at me_.”

There’s a hand on his cheek and one just above his hipbone, the former guiding his face away from the soft shawl. Eye contact, he swears to himself, is entirely out of the question. If he looks, if Formbi’s eyes pierce his own, then he will finally break. Sure as the moons rise over Csilla, he will break.

He feels the Aristocra’s mouth on his forehead, then over each of his eyes, the corner of his mouth-

It takes every last bit of energy he has to utter a single word between them, barely loud enough to be considered a word at all.

“Why?”

The man’s forehead is against his own and Thrass swears he hears Formbi’s own breaths tremble.

“I was blinded, as were we all.” The reply comes just as small and broken as the question. “As I fear we are now.”

“I hate you.”

There is a breath’s pause, then-

“I know.”

Thrass’s heart shudders within its prison, every draw of breath a struggle.

There’s no fight left in his soul when Formbi risks drawing him into a long and deep kiss and _kark it all he hates the bastard so much and he hates himself for allowing it and reciprocating and-_

There truly is a very fine line between hate and love, and if it is not a line then it is a world between worlds where both coexist in a balance of the other, tainted with guilt and remorse and pleasure and a pain so deeply rooted to the soul that it can never be removed.

_There is no such thing as a true absolute- there will always be a space in between, a crack in the perfection that creates room for the hypothetical and the unplanned. Where a balance exists, there comes into being an offspring of the sides, a place where they mingle and take root and become something not entirely one or the other. This creation leans to no one side, but rather exists of its own truth. There are very few capable of seeing this as real, and fewer still who possess a heart strong enough to venture into the space between spaces. Those who do not have such a heart… perhaps they are opting to forgo a crucial aspect of life._

_Or perhaps their hearts were not built to endure the pain they would have inevitably found in such a place._


	6. Kissing Prompts!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scribbles from tumblr prompts for Thrass/Thilvon, Thrass/Formbi, Karyb/Ar'alani, and Eli/Thrawn

**Thrass/Thilvon - 15 ) A fierce kiss that ends with a bite on the lip, soothing it with a lick.**

**(They’re 18 and 20, respectively. Thrass hasn’t been formally adopted into the Mitth yet, but is in the paperwork stage of it all)**

The laugh that bubbles up in his throat is cut short when his head hits the mountain of pillows on her bed. Then there’s a set of slim fingers around his throat, drawing a surprised hiss from behind his teeth.

The view, of course, is _fabulous_ , and in that moment Vurass has no choice but to accept his fate. Somehow, the image of being her accessory piece pops into his head, and _no he doesn’t mind that at all_. He’s no Mitth yet, but the second the ethereal Mitth daughter made eye-contact Vurass tripped and fell flat on his face for her. Literally, much to his own dismay. She’d concealed her laugh behind a politely raised hand and pressed lips, but the flush of her ears had been impossible to hide.

Her hair, long since undone from its styling, falls in his face and Vurass can’t help but drink in every single inch that he can see of her. He would touch, but the hand that _isn’t_ around his neck has his wrists firmly pinned to the mattress over his head.

And _no, he doesn’t mind that either._

“Enjoying yourself down there?” MItth’ilv’onei purrs against his cheek. She’s already smushed herself atop him, and if Vurass’s lungs are crushed under her, then that’s just how he goes.

On instinct (and precisely nothing more -while this isn’t their first time pressing their luck, this is the farthest he’s ever gotten with anyone), Vurass rolls his hips up to hers, and the little hiss he earns sends a rush straight to his pride, among other places. “Immensely.”

A nip to the tip of his ear -something that is distinctly Colonial, he’s discovered- then a second and third before Thilvon makes it to a sliver of skin at his neck that isn’t covered by her hand.

“ _Good.”_

This time when Vurass tests his boundaries, she meets him halfway and fully straddles him, leaning the entirety of her weight on his groin and _really, they’re both wearing too many layers._

But his hands are free now and he takes full advantage, resting them both at her waist and waits for her to allow him to venture elsewhere.

Thilvon hums in content and relaxes her hold on his throat for a moment, nodding just enough that he knows it’s there. And up go the hands, fingertips tracing the seams on either side of her shirt along her ribs, only to flatten against her chest for a moment before squeezing ever so gently. Another hum, and this time Thilvon’s fingers curl around his throat once more as she leans down to _finally_ kiss him proper.

Proper, and _hard_.

There’s teeth and tongue and Vurass’s aunt would be spinning in her grave if she knew he’d ended up favoring a woman’s company. The _audacity_ , she’d say sharply, but with the same teasing smile she’d always used when she _knew_ something was going to happen in a certain way.

Oh well. There’s not enough of anything flowing to his brain to think straight about anything except the goddess currently biting at his tongue.

She claims her prize with a bite and a roll of her hips and Vurass hisses sharply in something not quite pleasure or pain, and he scrambles to reciprocate, mirroring everything she had done just seconds prior.

Mitth’ilv’onei is a master at her own game and bests him once again when her teeth sink into the soft flesh of his lip before swiping her tongue across it, and in that moment Vurass simply accepts his fate.

And really, he’s completely on board with the idea of living his life as her trophy husband.

________________________

**Thrass/Formbi - 22) A kiss that is leading to more, but is interrupted by a third party.**

**(I know. I keep expanding this scene. One day I’ll stop. Maybe.)**

He knows who it is, knows why there’s yellow under his palms, knows whose hand is carding through his hair.

“ _Thrass…”_

The patriarch wants nothing more than to crawl into hole and fade into oblivion. He’s supposed to be better than this, better than sobbing miserably onto the shoulder of a blood rival.

Mitth’ras’safis is supposed to pull himself up by his bootlaces and go about his day fighting the utter injustices of the charges against Mitth’raw’nuru.

He’s head of their family, for kark sake.

_“Look at me.”_

There’s a hand on his cheek and one just above his hip bone, the former guiding his face away from the soft shawl. Eye contact, he swears to himself, is entirely out of the question. If he looks, if Formbi’s eyes pierce his own, then he will finally break. Sure as the moons rise over Csilla, he will break.

He feels the Aristocra’s mouth on his forehead, then over each of his eyes, the corner of his mouth-

It takes every last bit of energy he has to utter a single word between them, barely loud enough to be considered a word at all.

“Why?”

The man’s forehead is against his own and Thrass swears he hears Formbi’s own breaths tremble.

“I was blinded, as were we all.” The reply comes just as small and broken as the question. “As I fear we are now.”

“I hate you.”

There is a breath’s pause, then-

“I know.”

Thrass’s heart shudders within its prison, every draw of breath a struggle.

There’s no fight left in his soul when Formbi risks drawing him into a long and deep kiss and kark it all he hates the bastard so much and he hates himself for allowing it and reciprocating and-

 _How does it always end up here?_ With Thrass pressing as close as he can and the blasphemy’s fingers keeping his hips firmly against his own lap in a bruising grip and the _filthiest_ kisses possible. There’s a hand between them and Thrass knows what path the Aristocra is taking and it infuriates him that he _wants it._

There’s tears, they both know it. _Lots of tears_. Thrass’s kisses start and end with anger and rage and grief that he never learned how to properly express and Formbi just _knows_. His emotions are so hidden and guarded that they haven’t seen the light of day in decades, save for in extremely limited company.

Thrass has Thilvon, and now Formbi has Brierly.

And by some _utterly indecipherable_ logic, they somehow have each other.

_For all the thrown punches and foul words, they always end up right back here._

Thrass knows what the Aristocra is asking for when he feels the press of a tongue against the back of his teeth, and he doesn’t think twice before granting permission. _Anything_ to distract from everything falling apart around- _oh._ ”

Two pair of simmering red eyes fall to the poor university student unfortunate enough to be interning for Thrass’s office, who now stands stiff as a board, looking everywhere _except_ at the men in the window seat.

“But, uh,” she pauses, no doubt to carefully consider her next words and whether or not this will be a sour mark on her record (it will not be). “I was told to inform you that you’re overdue to meet with the _Everlast_ and Captain Kres’ten’tarthi… Ah, you as well, Aristocra.”

Thrass swallows the lump in his throat and nods curtly, ignoring the look of seething irritation painted on the blasphemy’s handsome face.

________________________

**Karyn/Ar’alani - 45) Kisses exchanged as they move around, hitting the edges of tables or nearly tripping over things on the floor before making it to the sofa, or bed.**

Ar’alani can talk all she wants and claim to have a tolerance for drink, but she absolutely does not. Though, it’s endlessly infuriating to know that -no matter how absolutely _trashed_ the woman is- she’ll almost _never_ wake with any sort of hangover.

Kriffing _Chiss._

But if Karyn has learned anything in her time lived with the woman, it’s that there is no drunk more loving and downright _cuddly_ than Ar’alani after you get about three drinks in her (which really, is all it takes to get her drunk; it’s almost tragic).

It’s trying to escape that cuddliness that’s always the hardest part, because Karyn _really_ needs to get her under a cold shower before she strips any further in the living room.

She doesn’t try to talk; Ar’alani’s persistent babbling won’t allow her a single syllable in edgewise. Not that Karyn minds. It’s the most relaxed she’s seen the woman in months and she really does enjoy seeing Ar’alani lose every scrap of military decorum she’s ever had.

This, however, is slightly more complicated to maneuver than her usual clinginess.

Clingy-Drunk Ar’alani doesn’t fall on her face in an attempt to strip and she certainly doesn’t almost crush Karyn against the back of the sofa and half of the kitchen in attempts to kiss her.

Extreme emphasis on _“attempt”._

Karyn can’t help but laugh through the entire ordeal, and ultimately bribes Ar’alani into the ‘fresher with promises of more kisses _after_ she’s sobered up a little. And she pouts, of course. But she’s clever even when so utterly inebriated, and Karyn finds herself pulled into the ‘fresher, flush against hot blue skin with even hotter lips already working down her jaw.

________________________

**Eli/Thrawn - 47)A kiss paired with a tight hug, knocking the breath out of the person being hugged.**

**(Apparently I kind of already wrote this scene in _Rising Order_ , so here’s a small expansion)**

Now, as he slowly learns to reciprocate Theliva’s increasing persistence, Thrawn wonders if all of that had been a work of Fate.

Thrawn is the first to break the kiss, but he doesn’t back away. Not fully. Instead, he stands, keeping a firm hold of Theliva’s hands, and pulls the other man to his feet before properly embracing him. Almost instantly, Theliva buries his face against Thrawn’s chest, still too short to do anything else. In truth, it’s far too adorable and Thrawn doesn’t know what to do with himself. Has Theliva always been this small? Had the CDF been forced to make custom-tailored uniforms for him?

“Perhaps this is poor timing,” Thrawn says quietly, so as not to spoil the moment, “but may I ask for your hand in a proper courtship?”

Predictably, Theliva pulls back just enough to shoot the man a bewildered look. “Thrawn. We’ve been married for almost a week now.”

“And yet we have established that the legal aspect of the union was solely for political gain,” he points out, “I fear that is utterly improper, from a moral standpoint.”

What is not predictable is how absolutely lovely Theliva’s laugh is. Thrawn has heard many a symphony in his years, heard many a poem recited, attended countless works of opera and theatre, and all instantly pale in comparison to the sound Mitth’eli’vant makes when he is amused. Even as short-lived as the reaction is, nothing more than a quick burst of unfiltered delight at Thrawn’s choice of words, Thrawn finds himself victim again to the many charms of the human. The human, whose doorstep Fate dumped him on so many years ago.

 _His_ human.

 _His_ Eli.

Thrawn once again draws him into a full embrace, content to stand with him as long as Theliva will allow. And truly, Thrawn is entirely sure that he has no idea how much time as passed when they finally retire fully for the evening.

Both are accustomed to the other’s company in a bedroom, they’ve been roommates for a great many years. But that night is the first that Thrawn slips under the same blankets that Theliva has swaddled himself in already and is allowed to hold the man close in sleep.

And honestly, it’s likely the best night’s sleep either one has gotten in _years._


	7. The First Night (Thrass/Thilvon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt fill!!
> 
> Major spoilers for "Inbound Flight: For Home and Song" ahead!!!!!

**Thrass/Thilvon - 39) Kissing tears from the other’s face.**

**(Y'all know I feel about these two in this _particular_ setting)**

The first night Thrass woke up alone, he panicked, checked the washroom, the kitchen, every room she could possibly be in, and panicked more when he couldn’t find her. Then his memory kicked in and a picture of what was left of her floating helplessly in a bacta tank filled every single one of his thoughts, and Thrass cried himself back to sleep.

If one could even call it “sleep”.

By the tenth night, Thrass just… barely slept at all. And when he did, it was rarely in bed. Most often, he would wake in rocking chairs with Grodu sleeping in his arms, much like his children had when they were infants. The thought in itself offers the smallest slip of comfort, and at this point he’ll take whatever he can get.

On night twelve, Thrass knows that there’s a ticking time bomb within the Ascendancy and that it’ll blow at any moment. So he goes to her, begs for her to live long enough to see her dreams of peace and progress made reality. And she’s there, perhaps only in his own dreams, but when he reaches out to take her hand, pitying eyes fade until she disappears, and Thrass wakes up once more in tears.

Thrass loses count after that night, for the suns and moons rise and fall on Rentor, on Csilla, on Sposia, and he never counts the mornings once they begin to bleed together. He watches his brother be called _Syndic_ for the first time, and even when Thrawn jumps a little in surprise, Thrass cannot find it in him to smile truly no matter how proud he is.

The days run together, and Thrass is weary. Tired. He should step away from his role as Patriarch and live the rest of his days in peace and silence, but he cannot abandon the one thing keeping him sane still.

The Mandalorian tells him it’s only been two months when he comes by to visit again, this time bearing news from his own kin on Rentor.

 _Clever Kivu_.

Once an insult thrown at himself and Thrawn, Thrass can’t help but utter it in praise now as he stares through the transperi at the surgical room, teeming with Chiss _and_ droids.

His Light is laid bare on their table, metals and plastics sticking out where bone and flesh should be. But she’s _alive_ , he can see the ticking numbers on screens and feel her presence like a beacon among the others.

It is the first night that Thrass is eager for sleep, for with sleep comes the dawn and with the dawn comes one day closer to the day he can hold her again.

The first night Thrass wakes up alone, he panics, checks the washroom, and the panic dispels.

Baths ease the lingering pain in her stumps and Thrass’s only frustration comes because she had not woken him for help. But Thilvon is a stubborn woman, if she is nothing else.

So he kneels behind the basin and runs his fingers through her hair, just how she always likes, and presses the softest of kisses to her forehead and eyelids, whispering sweet nothings and assurances between each kiss.

Tears come before long, but they are tears not or sorrow or pain, but of relief and joy. And one by one, Thrass kisses each of them from her cheeks and jaw and when it comes time that the water has run cold, he carries her to bed without the weight of her new limbs and holds her close until dawn decides to grace them. 


	8. With or Without You (Thrass/Formbi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Formbi considers the nature of love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip Vibe: https://youtu.be/XayyES2vO8Q  
> Thrass/Formbi general Vibe: https://youtu.be/7iPQK-KHoyc

Feesa lingers nearby, anxious to begin the escort voyage with the _Outbound Flight_ though Ascendancy space. A truly ambitious project, Formbi thinks, certainly worthy of respect. But he cannot help but worry over the passengers and crew. The same crew that his niece has scampered off on numerous occasions already to mingle with. Curious little devil, he knows. She’ll make a fine diplomat and dignitary one day, when she finally grows out of the anxiety brought upon by large crowds.

He isn’t sure why he still hovers near the moorings. Perhaps it’s insanity that keeps him within the Mitth Syndic’s reach, perhaps it’s a stubborn refusal to accept that they have been merely a footnote in the pages of history for over a decade. But still Formbi’s feet led him _here_ and something in the back of his mind assures him that it is not without reason. He can just make out the shape of Mitth’ras’safis across the docking bay, hair tied back for once and donning the uniform of a crew member. It’s a bit baggy in the limbs, but the man’s never been built for anything but light athletics, and he’s certainly grown soft in his time on Csilla. But still Formbi can see the corner of his jaw and the lines of his neck and something inside him does a little flip when Thrass peaks over his shoulder.

Once, when he was still called Vurass, Thrass had told him of his siblings’ Sight, as well as his own. No doubt he can sense Formbi’s now-bordering on inappropriate gaze. Thrass has long since been married and come to sire children -a young daughter and ever younger son- and still they’ve sought each other’s company in the throes of anger or pain in vain attempts to ease what has befallen them.

And a smile dares to grace Thrass’s lips, and it _almost_ reaches his eyes as he excuses himself from whatever conversation he has been trapped in and crosses the dock to stand a pace from Formbi. The Chaf stiffens, squares his shoulders. An insult in on the tip of his tongue and an armada of snark is at the ready to be fired off at a moment’s notice.

And, perhaps foolishly, Formbi expects the same in return.

What he sees is a sadness in his rival’s eyes, one that has the sheen of poorly withheld tears and soul-deep sorrow.

Before he even gets the chance to demand what the Syndic could _possibly_ want from him at this meeting, Thrass withdraws from his bag a legal envelope marked in his own horrid script and holds it between them.

“You and I both know the dangers of this mission.” Thrass speaks in a voice that sounds as fragile as an infant’s joy. “As does Thilvon... I need-“ Something stops him, and Formbi tilts his head. A breath is sucked in through closed teeth and let out in a long sigh, and Thrass raises his eyes to Formbi’s. “I need you to promise me that you will take care of them if I do not return.”

The Syndic may as well have driven a knife into his chest and twisted it thrice for the pain Formbi feels at his words. It is indescribable and without sensible origin, but that does not discredit its existence. Formbi works his jaw around words, but none come out as they should and for the first time he can remember, the Aristocra finds himself utterly speechless. They can deny it all they want, but the pair would be naught but the shells of men should the other be lost to accident or time. Thrass may be willing to accept that fact, or even accept that he may very well be leaving behind more of his heart than just his blood family. Formbi, much to his own dismay, is not nearly as willing to let the man slip through his fingers that easily.

Perhaps it is their own kind of love, twisted and corrupted and all but broken to the point that it clings only by a single thread. But still it is a love nonetheless, even if neither is willing to voice it or even entertain the thought.

Formbi takes the envelope and slips it into his own sidebag, then without thinking twice about who might bear witness to the act wraps his fingers around the other man’s arm and draws him into a proper embrace, their foreheads touching just enough that they are both aware of the contact. He can hear the flicker of Thrass’s tongue wetting his lips and the sharp intake of breath through his nose, but the man does not pull away. Instead, Formbi is made keenly aware of the hand in his hair and the tilt of the Syndic’s head only milliseconds before Thrass’s mouth is on his.

He’s crying, Formbi can feel the tears drip onto his own cheeks and the barely-controlled desperation in the way Thrass moves his lips.

It’s either minutes or hours before Thrass breaks the kiss and tucks his face against the crook of Formbi’s neck, and the latter finds that he doesn’t care in the least. Instead it is as if they’ve been lurched back in time to the simple days when they were young and their only cares were grades and being to class on time.

Thus, it is with no lack of sincerity that Formbi holds his rival close and speaks his own promise to him, a promise to return him to his family at any cost, under any circumstance, and to ensure the safety and wellbeing of the same until his return.

And no, he cannot explain the way his breath and pulse both fail him when Mitth’ras’safis finally withdraws to his ship, nor does he care to. Formbi simply stares until the vessel vanishes into hyperspace, and when it is gone, it takes every remaining shred of sanity in him to remain standing, for amid the daily buzz about the marina, Formbi knows he is already lost in a maelstrom of dread and shattering paranoia.

It is with that last remaining strength and sanity that Chaf’orm’bintrano sets his shoulders and straightens the bag around his shoulders and sets off into the core of the station, so far from the reaches of the Ascendancy that now he is nothing more than another face in the crowd, vanishing much like the vessel carrying a bit of his heart past the reaches of the galaxy.

Be it with his dying breath, he will see to the safety of his dear friend and her children, for despite the blood-feud of their Houses, Fombi truly does love them all.


	9. Late Mornings and Early Nights (Thrass/Thilvon/Formbi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the end of hell week (finals), Vurass considers the situation he's found himself in.

The conclusion of exam week brings about quite the festivities one might expect to be concocted by tired and burnt out students of politics and law, though housing blocks are not without their grander parties. Those who tend to take their study more seriously, those who slept nary a wink in weeks, on the other hand, vastly prefer their lethargy, no matter how much their stubbornness resents them for it.

Chiss, when sufficiently warn, are not fond of being forced away from the warmth for any reason, whether it be a simple matter of relieving oneself or a life and death situation. Thus, if one forces a Chiss from hot water, one must do so with the promise of soft, warm blankets and bedding. And give them another body to curl around, and sure as daylight they will not rise from bed for many hours after their sleep cycle has ended. As such, the rule of dormitories and housing blocks at all universities states that no two students shall find themselves bedded up with one another during the week, lest academics be willfully -or accidentally- ignored. And like all rules of academia, it exists as the result of one too many professors or administrators dealing with one too many a student that is too keen to test their boundaries.

Not that it really stops anyone. There’s a collective mentality of “they can’t catch all of us” about the place and everyone is ready and willing to be the one to get caught, should the Fortunes deem it necessary; a verbal smack on the wrist is an acceptable consequence for a night of warmth.

Vurass has the unfortunate luck of ending his week well into the evening on the last day of exams, and having taken his time looking over each of his answers twice and then twice more -anxiety is strange like that- he only just makes it home in time for dinner, which he thinks will be a much simpler matter if he just sends for takeout and lets Formbi fend for himself if they cannot agree on a meal.

The plan, however, crumbles before him when he slinks through the front door and spots two of the three dining chairs taken up and the table strewn with takeout boxes. It smells like the heavens, Vurass thinks, and a little spark of warmth blooms in his heart.

_They’d ordered fish skins, by the smells of things -a common source of disgust to all but him._

A smile playing at his cheeks -which are tired and sore from all of the jittery gnawing- Vurass places a feather light kiss to Thilvon’s crown first, then pecks his flatmate’s cheek right below his eyes before taking the last seat and happily dining into the meal.

He watches them both with tired eyes, how their mannerisms differ so greatly while somehow being so similar. Formbi is the more delicate of the two when holding his utensils, and takes more time to chew each little morsel. Thilvon, in contrast, stabs at her food with enough passive aggression to threaten an entire banquet hall, all while retaining her grace. The Chaf are dignitaries, foreign diplomates, and the whole family seems to walk the line of polite etiquette and unbridled snobbery. The Mitth, his own future family, are engineers and shipbuilders. They can afford to be rough around the edges in a way the Chaf cannot. Vurass takes it all into careful consideration, and files it away for later use.

They do make quite the sight, though it isn’t an uncommon practice for housing services to stick children of rival families in the same flats in hopes that they’ll learn to coexist in peace as adults.

Unfortunately, it just tends to make them more bitter.

Thilvon’s presence is easy to explain away. A blood daughter of the Mitth, constantly dragging a merit-adoptive around like an eager child who’s just found a new playmate.

In the public eye, they are no strange, nor are they obscure. Unlikely in their own ways, perhaps, but not at all strange.

But it is these moments -the quiet dinners that will no doubt see them all dozing on the lounges in a puddle of limbs, the late mornings of tangled blankets and generally unwillingness to break contact- that make them obscure. Never in the public eye of course, for it would draw unwanted attention, but in their private spaces and calm moments, they exist as a single unit.

There are certainly nights, Vurass thinks as he plucks another fish skin from the basket, that he can do nothing but wonder at how he has come to find himself between the two.

He refills Formbi’s teacup and once the kettle is set aside, Thilvon snatches up his hand in hers.

An odd occurrence indeed, and one that Vurass hopes -perhaps childishly- will last for the rest of their lives.


End file.
